Thalassocracy
by tripodion
Summary: Italy, 1854. A new case brings John and Sherlock to Venice, where they investigate a series of murders linked to an occult killer and their mysterious covenant. Prequel (of sorts) to Parhelion. Can be read as a standalone.
1. stalemate

_French Riviera,_ 1854

A letter had come—there had been a death in Venice, one quite curious and rather auspicious.

It wasn't much trouble to make the journey; they had been living in the southeast of France, holed away in a tiny and utterly inconspicuous town on the Riviera. Their nights were spent wandering the citrus groves, the beaches; their shadows passed through the sloping tiers of buildings, pale and stuccoed sorbets of melon and orange, perched together on the port before the wide, dark sea as it sparkled under the moonlight, the palms waving in the breeze.

They had been ghosts in Norway, and they were ghosts now, although of an entirely different kind. They would wake together in their tiny rooms as the sun fell through the sky, staring at each other silently as they worked at their bond, passing over it the way a jeweler holds a rare and particular brilliant, making sure to catch the light at every angle, detangling each snag and knot slowly; then they would wash and dress one by one, watching each other by the light of the oil lamp. When night was a certainty, dimmed behind the thick curtains, they would go out.

The streets were often more empty than not, the bells of the basilica signalling the dinner hour. They were ghosts, ghosts because their world was one apart, separated by an inaccessible chasm and unavoidable fact. Perhaps that was their problem, that they had always been ghosts, and had never admitted it, never talked about it, never said a word. Those who weren't could never know, would never believe them, and those who were, were never seen in the daytime. No—ghosts, ghouls, monsters—they were creatures of the night, a tale told to children to get them to stay in their beds. Their kind was realer; more than a shadow on the wall.

Word spread quickly around town about the foreign visitors, and although no one quite seemed to trust them, they were left to their own desires; once Sherlock had managed to solve the rather simple crime of a trussed-up goose and a missing gemstone, their reception was much warmer. Some evenings he would rise early and open their salon to whatever wayward visitor or potential patron might ring, and John would come later, prepare the tea service, and sit quietly as he watched Sherlock work, peeling apart the lowly, sundry drama of pastoral life.

As a mediator between the villagers and the pedestal they had placed his husband on, John was quick to recognize the early signs of his mate in crisis; the furious research, the mania of a case, followed by the long, still silences, the frustration of unfulfillment, so obvious now that he'd seen the worst of it in Norway.

After the newest affairs were parsed out and the latest misplaced jewelry found, he could tell Sherlock was one missing-wife-run-off-with-the-maid case away from tearing his eyes out just to have something interesting happen, for neither aristocrat nor charwoman offered anything to appease his attention, and when he watched Sherlock take audience after audience in their cramped little salon with the heavy curtains drawn, John was rather reminded of a large cat lying supine in the sun, trading an active mind for comfort, feeding from morsels and growing fat under their deficient succor.

Upon the letter's arrival, they needed no prompting to pack up their things and find the first night coach available.

The journey up the coast took the better part of the day, and the two, hemmed into the darkness and the rocking, said little, more comfortable in silence than small talk. Sherlock sat opposite, an intense look of concentration settling over his face as he stared at his mate. John ignored him, slowly flipping through his book until he couldn't stand the feeling any longer; an irritating feeling, like a new bruise being poked at.

"Stop it."

"I believe it was you who told me it was good to practice." His husband muttered.

John frowned. "There's a difference between practicing out of necessity and practicing out of boredom."

Silence—then a feeling along the back of his neck, like hairs rising; a hand gliding over feathers, brushing the quills against their grain.

He shut his book, choosing to ignore the grin on his mate's face.

"Sherlock."

"Please, no interruptions. I'm practicing."

The sensation warmed, a comfortable presence as it spread outwardly; the way it flexed, like a muscle stretching after rest, and then the way it felt, a caress and a reminder at once.

"Sherlock."

It faded at his tone, and he knew that no matter what his mate may claim, he was not immune to holding the feelings of others to consideration.

But they both recognized that it was more than that, more than a minor irritant, more than just something to pass the time while traveling.

"Thank you." He said quietly, returning to his book. Sherlock turned his head and stared out the window.

"He can't go backwards. You'll never have him back the way you did before…"

The ocean was beautiful in the distance, sparkling in and out in magnificent shades of blue, and John still wouldn't let him touch him, hadn't allowed him to since just after Shanghai, nearly fifteen bloody years ago, and even that had been a half-hearted, quickly aborted attempt, one best left forgotten to time.

In a sense, he didn't mind; the bond was still untouched, as strong as it ever was, and that was what was important. John still maintained it, kept it open. John wanted it—that was what mattered. He could operate off thousands of memories of them together, bare fingers, bare hands, the heightened sensitivity, the breath that wasn't breath.

And yet…John wouldn't allow it. He knew it was because of the great transgression, the Norway fiasco, when he had reacted without thinking, imagining John, wanting her to be John, John, who had stopped talking to him, who had nothing of himself that he wanted to share anymore, who had turned away and let their bond trickle to next to nothing, leaving him no choice but to seal it off in a dramatic, impulsive act of cauterization. It had been like being handcuffed to a brick wall; the words had stopped coming, and the praise, and the appreciation, no more smiles, no laughter, all the brightness washing out of the world – John had not been the only one to suffer. He had suffered too, in his own way.

This was their punishment then: a stalemate. John did not want to go forward. He wanted to withhold something he had complete control over, without ceding any ground. Sherlock understood, and had reacted in a way that many who knew him wouldn't have ever believed: he obeyed.

After John had found him in Shanghai, he had done what he had promised to do, and quit the poppy blood, the dark smoky dens, the hiding and the concealment in a life of shadow and guilt. They had wandered the continent, and he had tried. He had persisted in initiating contact, if only to see where the boundaries lay; he tried in tiny apartments, in appartements, forest dachas, in flat fields under the stars, and each time John had allowed it to progress, then suddenly stopped completely, each time more baffling than the next because Sherlock knew he wanted to continue. He was certain.

He didn't think it was intentional, but he also knew John was no fool lacking the finer points of introspection; John was aware of the issue. His gloves had stayed on for the better part of a decade—he knew, without a doubt.

Mostly, it hadn't mattered. It really hadn't. John had stayed, and his presence was something Sherlock would sacrifice many things for. Their relationship had needed far more attention elsewhere, and by the time his body had caught up to them, they already hadn't slept together in nearly a decade. If he was honest, he could pinpoint their last time together down to the hour, in that lonely manse in Norway, but it was an event he was rather ashamed of, ashamed of the way they had used each other, selfishly, without love.

He was happy enough with how things were, sex be damned. If it meant not snapping their tenuous peace, if it meant they might not go forward but they certainly weren't going backwards, then so be it.

He could wait.

_Contrada dell'unione, Venice, Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia_

The body had been found just past dawn. The Jewish quarter was on high alert—there had already been four before this, found on the outskirts in alleyways, rooftops, slumped against the _sottoportegos_. They feared they were the natural suspects; Spanish, Italian, Ashkenazi, Roman, it made no difference. The were the other, foreign, outsiders.

The scene had been partitioned on either end by members of the night watch. The guard was merely a precaution, for the surrounding canals and streets of the ghetto were empty. Citizens peered tentatively out from windows and balconies, hesitant to be the first the question eye of the city fell on.

Sherlock ignored them. Let them watch, or hide, it was no business of his, for he'd already had an idea of the true culprit since the first report, and they were no Jew nor Christian, nor even member of the human race.

Completely exsanguinated. Almost five litres of blood in all. They were young, then, or greedy, or both. Either way they were dangerous. The general populace of Venezia would dwindle, one by one, until none were left, that was to be sure. It had happened before, in little-missed miserable communes, in ruined mountain villas, in the lost colonies of the new continent, gone as soon as they were established.

John was speaking with the attending doctor, who had quickly thrown a cloak over his nightclothes after he was called from his bed. As the old man stooped to motion to the bloody, gaping hole where the man's throat had once been, indicating the direction of the slice that had led to his untimely demise, their eyes met. Their bond trilled with a faint, warbling tremor. For a moment, everything was as it had been: himself and John, hounds scenting blood in the air. He hungered then, for the night, for its secrets, the unknown quantities it was hiding from them.

The game was on.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes then stood, straightening up to scan the surrounding rooftops.

"Where is the nearest canal?"

A small crowd had clustered on one side of the _Ponte delle Guglie_, dark figures leaning over the railing. A triumphant shout sounded. and a call went out to raise the nets that filtered the sea green Lido waters.

There it was: the straight razor, the small bowl to funnel the blood, the stained rags that cleaned the aftermath, all bundled together in a wet tangle. Sloppy. He was almost disappointed.

But the tools meant there was a process being followed, and one that was more or less working. At the very least, whoever it was had avoided capture thus far.

John stood beside him as the captain of the night guard ordered the net lowered again,.

"They won't find anything."

"No," John agreed, as pleasantly as if they'd been chatting about the certainty of a coming storm.

"Did you feel it? Earlier?"

He didn't need to elaborate. As he waited for his mate's answer, a low feeling coiled within him, cold, remnants of fear he'd tried to forget. Not so long ago, he would have said it was a natural response of the human condition, some lowly biological holdover he'd attempted to put behind him, explain away without a second thought. Now, when he had something he cared about losing, he wasn't so sure.

John stared at him for a moment, then looked away.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The _Biblioteca Marciana_ had stood already for more than three centuries, its horned, whitewashed crown of statues peeking over the horizon at a distance.

John waited beneath one of the arcades, form shadowed by the flickering oil lamps. He sighed, watching boats passing against the night, just past the balustrade, so close he might reach out and touch them. Something within him loved the water, the immediate presence of it, it's depth, the rhythm as it came forward, then back. It was a constant, something he felt lucky to bear witness to, no matter how much time had passed. This water was blue, not quite as clear as the southern seas, where the Aegan, water was so blue you could lose yourself completely, so blue it matched his eyes, there in the night, half-drunk, half-daring you both to jump off the cliffside and surrender to it, because you could, you could survive it, survive him –

"Come along, John."

He snapped out of his thoughts, but Sherlock was already gone, heading back inside. And what else could he do, but follow.

Of all the things he'd assumed they would be doing in Venice, breaking into the library hadn't factored into the list quite yet.

"Did you know, John, that every printer in the Republic must send a copy of their work here? Their manuscript collections are astounding—Greek, Latin, Oriental…they even have a copy of the Iliad from the fifth century somewhere…"

"Fascinating." John answered, watching absentmindedly as Sherlock rifled through the stacks, scanning the unbroken seals on rolls of bundled yellow parchment.

Suddenly, the movement stopped, and Sherlock's curly hair, matted in dust, appeared.

"Are you having a good time?"

"'Am I having a good time?'" John frowned.

"Well, at least we know your ears still work."

"I think that may be the first time you've asked me that in two hundred years."

"Don't exaggerate," Sherlock scowled, "It can't have been over a century yet."

"We can have this conversation later."

"The watch won't even be aware of what's hit them until well into tomorrow morning." He huffed, then, as if to make a point, set all his gathered tomes and sheaves of parchment on the table so hard John imagined it would buckle under the sudden weight. "We'll have this conversation now."

"It can't be somewhere…more private, perhaps?"

"More private? More? John, look around you. We're in a two-story building without any living souls in at least two hundred meters. The only way it'd be more private is if we locked ourselves in the washroom down the hall."

"I just don't think—"

"Think what? You're clearly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation, and yet we cannot move forward unless it's been exorcised from us completely. You're a doctor, what would you do with a gangrenous limb?"

"Not the best metaphor, Sherlock." John frowned, lips pursed. "I don't see our relationship as something I should be rid of."

"You certainly seem to be treating it that way." He responded lowly, unable to keep the slight tremor from his voice. At least, thankfully, it hadn't cracked.

John said nothing in response, and he didn't need to. He felt the low coil rise deep inside him, the nuclear reaction compressing inwards in the brief moment before expansion.

"What is it? What can I do to–to—" To what? _Make you love me again? Not be repelled by me when I touch you?_ "To remedy this situation?"

John sighed, and it was a sound he knew well. It said without speaking: I'm tired, I don't want to talk about it anymore, leave it alone.

"I need…space."

He frowned, that cold feeling curling inside him again. "Space? You've had ten years of it. Surely that would be enough."

"No, not…I don't mean emotional."

The floor began to unravel beneath his feet, slowly, then all at once as he realized–

"You want to leave."

He had not been alone, truly alone, in over three hundred years.

"I don't know." John admitted quietly. "I haven't decided."

Moonlight was streaming in through the windows, reflecting off the waters that slowly lapped in and out. He couldn't remember why they had come here, what they were doing in this foreign place, these foreign words filling him, topping him over easy as a breeze to a feather. He was falling now, down into the darkness, falling as the voice called out:

_You'll never have him back the way you did before._

* * *

Will be updated every Sunday! Can also be found on AO3.


	2. sempre dritto

_Calle Posta Cannaregio, Sestieri Cannaregio, Venice_

The candles and oil lamps were all lit in their windows, glinting against the green lagoon as their small boat gliding along the canal. A black cat napped in an open sill, the smell of fish and frying potatoes drifting out past it to join the fog rising from the cooling waters.

She was already waiting on the steps outside, dark form covered under an umbrella dripping in dramatic gold fringe, held up by one of her liveried staff, lined up in an obedient row to receive them. John smiled as he stepped up onto the dock, and Sherlock sat for a moment, and wondered at the first genuine glimpse of excitement he'd seen from his mate in a long time. He noted the feeling, then swept it aside as he too climbed from the boat.

"_Gianni_. It is wonderful to see you again." Their host said, laughing as she grasped him by the shoulders, taking him in. "Time has done good work. You look much better than you used to. No beard this time, I see." Her gaze swept over to Sherlock, and she stepped forward, offering her gloved hand. "And I believe we have this man to thank. Good evening, Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello, Artemisia. Your English has improved."

"A radiant compliment coming from you. I thank you." She turned to John and smiled. "It has been a long time, no? No one is coming to see me anymore in my old age."

"Why on earth would anyone want to go to _Naples_?" Sherlock asked and Artemisia's eyes narrowed.

"Just as charming as I remember. Come, you must be hungry. Let us eat."

She and John talked amiably, Sherlock a ghost in tow as they followed their host down the long, arched halls, candlelight gleaming off gilded frames, paintings in rich shining tempuras of eggy yellows, vibrant reds, deep oily black.

"You've been busy." John noted, eyeing the draped canvases in the foyer laying in their padded crates, ready to be shipped to their patrons.

"I've been lucky," Artemisia corrected, "It is heartening to see that people still desire good art."

"Well, I don't think you'll ever want for commissions—" John said, coming short as she stopped in the middle of the narrow hallway.

"You are kind, _Gianni_. Come, this way." The candles guttered as she reached out to press a panel in the wall, a door swinging inwards as she stepped into the concealed hallway. "For security, as you know. If the palazzo is to come under attack, there is another passage in the kitchen that comes out through the sewer. This one leads to my private salon."

"Did you design the house yourself?" John asked, ducking low to avoid a drooping beam. "It seems like it's been built upon."

"This is Venice—everything has been built upon. And this place it is always sinking. But sometimes that is what we want."

Sherlock paused for a moment, eyes narrowing in the dark among the candlelight. In the distance, the sound of clinking silver, glass, laughing.

"Leon is still in business, then?" He said. Although he kept his tone light, he knew she shared John's special talent of spotting his disingenuity.

"I will answer John's question first, which will do me the favour of also answering yours." Artemisia answered, leading them down a series of steps, into the cool darkness. "The house is strong. I have merely added certain features which suit me, including renting half of my property to Leon for his inn."

"It's a front, then?" John asked.

"She learned from the best." Sherlock muttered. "How is Potempkin by the way?"

"You may sleep on the docks if you'd prefer." Their host sniffed, sorting through a ring of keys as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes, well. You do have rather byzantine tastes."

"A hard habit to break." She agreed, unlocking the door. They entered a richly decorated foyer, following the fine crimson rug directly towards a single staircase.

"I had been having help from the covenant." Artemisia said as they climbed. "That is how you say that, yes?"

"Yes." John said quickly, shooting Sherlock a look over his shoulder. "More or less."

"Don't be so disapproving, Sherlock Holmes." Artemisia added, leading them down a short hall. "The covenants here are not the same as yours." She turned, opening the door as she leaned against it. "You haven't changed at all. I can feel that sour look on your face."

"I'm afraid that's just his face." John smiled. "It's something you get used to."

Artemisia's salon was a subdued but tasteful room, paneled in dark wood and dominated by a large fireplace filled with lit candles. The canal waters slowly drifted past underneath the windows, opened to let in the cool night breeze. The house, John quickly found, was a bit of a maze, separated by false walls from the busy inn on the other side. As many things with Artemisia, you had to go down before you went up, winding upwards from the servant's quarters to her salons and apartments, carefully concealed but open to the canal. Never one to deny her creature comforts, even at the risk of a little sunlight.

Sherlock had wandered off after they had eaten, his oncoming sulk mediated by Artemisia happening to let word slip of her alchemy lab in the cellar.

"Don't ruin the vintage!" She had called after him as he disappeared into the concealed hall, his cloak flapping dramatically behind him. "That man has a natural flare for dramatics." She sighed.

"That he does." John agreed, laying back against the seat of the plush chaise, his teeth beginning to recede as his eyes closed.

"So, _Gianni_, tell me of Norway."

His eyes snapped open and he lifted his head.

Artemisia shrugs. "Words, they are travelling fast in our circles."

"Does everyone know?" John huffed.

"No, I would not be saying that, but I believe Irene is doing her best to see to it."

"Irene," John hummed, hands crossed over his stomach. "So she came here, did she?"

"Yes. About three years back. On her way to Switzerland." Artemisia answered, standing to gather their used pewter glasses. "If it is making you feel better, I did not ask; she offered the information herself."

"Naturally."

"Still, I am glad to hear that you are together. It is a sad thing when a bond fails. Love, marriage – it is different for us, no? We take it seriously. Are you still hungry?"

John waved a hand. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Have you initiated a feeding with him in the interim?"

"_What?_" John sat up, whirling around to face her over the lip of the armrest. It was an incredibly personal question to ask, even friends older than they would not ever speak of it. It was an acknowledgement of something intimately private, something the questioner had no right to participate in or involve themselves in. It was a question Irene would ask.

"That is the word in English, yes? 'Feeding'?"

'Yes, Artemisia." He replied, somewhat dazed, "That's the word in English."

"It sounds vulgar."

"It is."

She shrugged, sitting back down across from him.

"Why did you feel that you could ask me that?" He asked.

"What, the English word?" She asked, but John knew she wasn't so naïve. "Translation is one thing, pronunciation another. I will have to be making mistakes until I learn the intricacies of your language—"

"Artemisia."

"Irene indicated to me that you might be having a…compatibility problem."

The question itself was not what bothered him; he was rather surprised she hadn't asked with Sherlock in the room, or upon greeting them; Artemisia had little time to entertain etiquette before she would toss it aside and address the heart of the matter—the true eye of a painter, seeing straight into the bottomless color of things.

No, what surprised him was the thought that Irene, of all people, seemed to be behind it. But just as Artemisia was as perceptive as she was smart. She would not be manipulated by Irene, or anyone, if she didn't allow herself to be first—something he admired, and that Sherlock hated. John was of the opinion that, should she choose to, Artemisia could easily dominate not only the politics of the human world, but theirs as well. It was a pity, then, that of the two times she had met Mycroft, what seemed like a perfect pairing both times had quickly devolved into a wraith of blood and barbed words.

"And why are you relaying this to me?" He asked carefully. Artemisia was not partial to accusations, and instead was quick to suspicion, and quicker to a grudge. "Aren't I in the best position to know the state of my bond?"

"Because I care about your happiness, and I'm an old woman with nothing left to do in this lonely mansion but worry over my friends and their happiness."

John nearly rolled his eyes. He hadn't expected dramatics this soon—typically it was two to three glasses in. But, now that he thought about it, her supply had been rather exceptional, made him feel warmer, more pliant. She had picked it smartly; she'd wanted him relaxed and open to questions. Heaven only knows what Sherlock's reaction was. He'd be in the oubliettes by dawn if he got into the vintage.

"That's very considerate of you."

Her eyes narrowed. "You suspect my intentions?"

"No," he answered slowly, prickling at the edges, "but it's not really your business, is it?"

Artemisia sighed. "_Gianni_, you know I worry."

"There's nothing to worry about. Everything is fine."

"Everything is not fine. You have been together for over three hundred years; if everything were fine, I suspect you would not have come here unless I invited you. While I am appreciating your unannounced visit, do not think me foolish enough to presume it is only for the pleasure of seeing my face. Now, we are speaking the truth, yes? So, begin."

She looked at him expectantly and he inwardly sighed. In truth, the last thing he wanted to do was discuss his private life—he knew they were not on the right path after Norway, recognized that healthy couples did not throw screaming fits over crockery in the dead of winter because one of them was breaking down and the other was punching up. If anything, he was all too aware of their collective failures; he did not need another's confirmation to tell him that. And yet…he wanted to hear an outside opinion. He would be brief, then, and clear. No misunderstandings or twisting of facts, nothing to give to Irene, should she go snooping, as she most likely would.

"If Sherlock asks, I won't lie to him." He said evenly. "You know about Norway, so I assume you know about China, too."

She nodded. "And Algiers."

"Then you're aware of the difficulties we're facing. We've had…a lot to come back from, things we're still working out. But it's still better than it used to be, and Irene has no business twisting the knife she put there herself, and neither do you."

Artemisia raised her brow, but said nothing; she had a small smile on her face. "I have a dissenting opinion. If you will allow me to say it. As an old friend who wishes well for you, I believe you do not want to talk about this, not because of etiquette, but because you have no desire to address the problems within your relationship and your current sexual incompatibility with your mate."

"No," he shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it because there is nothing you need to know about."

She shook her head back in response. "You have already lost before we begin the game, _Gianni_. If we are to follow your proposition, then you have negated the problem from the outset. If you did want to talk, then you talk with Mr Holmes, alone, and we know you have not. That's very poor logic for a chess player to use."

"I agree." Another voice added, and John turned to meet his mate's eyes as he closed the hidden door, cloak over his arm. "Your strategy is rather sloppy."

John felt blood rush to his ears as they reddened; still such an odd sensation, so close to a feeding.

"Sherlock," Artemisia replied cordially. "Did you enjoy the lab?"

"Profoundly. You'll be happy to know the vintage was undisturbed." He stepped forward, pulling a vial from the pocket of his coat. "At your leisure, please see that this goes to Mycroft."

She smiled, disappearing it up her sleeve. "What is it?"

"Something wicked." Sherlock said, a grin coming to his face. "He'll hate us for eons."

John might have been worried, but he knew the two, despite their stubbornness, were united in the singular cause of making Mycroft's life as complicated as possible, through uncivil and subtle means alike; two siblings forever conspiring to undermine the favourite.

"I thank you, and also for the alembic you still owe me."

His husband balked. "That was fifty years ago."

"What?" John frowned.

"It was a gift from my sister. I'll have a replacement."

"You were here without me?" John asked, but was steadfastly ignored.

"Do you know how expensive that will be to send it here?"

"Please," Artemisia scoffed, "you come from one of the oldest lines. They dwarf my wealth ten times at least."

"Fine." He sighed, knowing it was best to capitulate than to fight her. "Order whatever you want, but send Mycroft the invoice—"

"You came here after Austerlitz?" John interrupted. "That was where you were?"

"It was a brief stop. I was on my way to meet you in Heidelberg."

"He only stayed a week—" Their host offered.

"Thank you, Artemisia." Sherlock scowled, turning to his mate. "John. We need to talk. Good night, Artemisia," he added, speaking to their host as he took hold of John's arm.

"Good night." Artemisia replied sweetly, her voice following them as Sherlock all but dragged him down the hall. "Rest well!"

Sherlock followed him in, shutting the door to their room before tossing his cloak over the chair, shoulders tense.

"What did you do here for a week?" John asked.

His mate paused as he slid out of his boots, unbuttoned the chemise. "Does that upset you, that I was here without telling you?"

John sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, considering. "No. It surprises me more that there are things I'm still learning about you."

"Is that bad?"

"It can be, sometimes. When you hide things." He said, watching as Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt. "Give it here. You'll just crease it."

He handed over his shirt. As reached over to turn down the oil lamp, the light caught the line of gold at his chest. He sighed. "This hasn't left us."

"It's rather overstayed its welcome." John agreed mildly, straightening the shirt at its seams.

Silence, then Sherlock spoke again, quietly. "Are you telling me to go?"

"No!" He said quickly, straightening up. "No, I'm just saying it's something we should have discussed by now. I should have asked, said something…"

"John, it's alright—"

"No," he shook his head. "it's not." He perched on the edge of their bed, looking up across the room at his mate, standing as still as stone, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, the blade to fall; suddenly he hated himself, how he had acted, how he'd behaved. Sherlock's recovery had not been easy, and it was not far in the distance behind them, yet he still acted as if it were possible these last years had been for nothing, as if one fight, one criticism, one misconstrued word might send his mate spiraling back down into the darkness that had consumed them in Norway.

"I've been too careful with you." John continued. "I haven't treated you as if I trust you. What happened to you, to us, I haven't been able to get past."

You'll never have him back the way you did before.

"Why?" Sherlock asked quietly. "I thought…I thought when I got better you might—" Might what? Forgive him? Forget what he'd done? "I thought we would be like it was."

"Sherlock, that's—"

"—unrealistic, I know. I've realized that. I craved opium and nothing less than the destruction of the human race because I was emotionally unequipped to handle myself or our relationship responsibly. I think I, of all people, understand my own shortcomings." He exhaled heavily, softening at the sight of his husband, the idiot, staring up at him from the bed. "What are you asking me, John?"

But he could tell his mate was too polite, too kind to really tell him what he was thinking: What has happened to us? What have we done to each other?

"Do you love me?" John asked, so quietly Sherlock almost thought he had imagined it, the bond whispering its deepest thoughts, but then he continued: "Am I…making you unhappy by being with me?"

"No." He answered, without hesitation. "No, John. I want you with me, always. I think I've been rather insistent the fact that I cannot be what I am without you. If I were unhappy, you would know—"

"But that's the problem—" John interrupted. "I didn't know in Norway. Or maybe I did." He shrugged. "I didn't want to be right, I think. I've never faced something like that. We've never been like that before."

"I didn't intend to make it your first encounter."

"I know you didn't."

Sherlock came to settle in front of him, between his knees. His hands came up to rest on John's shoulders, separated by a thin layer of cotton shirt as he stared down at his mate. "I love you, John. If I didn't, I would have stayed in Shanghai. I would have been gone long before Norway...of all people, you know best that I don't suffer under situations I find intolerable—"

"But that's just it, Sherlock. You are suffering, this is intolerable, and we're nowhere closer to resolving this than we were when it happened. I thought I understood you," John added quietly, "I thought after all this time together, all our time apart, that I had you figured out. I wasn't expecting—I didn't expect this—and I think…that's what bothers me the most. That I didn't see it coming."

Sherlock frowned. "How could you have? I didn't. One of my many mistakes…" Slowly, he reached out to touch his husband's face, but John leaned away, just enough to be out of reach.

"Not yet." He said, and Sherlock believed him. "I know you explained it all, that you wanted it to be me, that you felt ignored, that you felt as if I wasn't—"

"Don't you think I am well-acquainted enough with the exact causes of my greatest failures?" He snapped, then froze at John's expression, open-mouthed and blank.

And then, John began to laugh.

"What? What's so funny?"

"Irene was right," he said, and Sherlock tensed. "Nothing ever changes with us, and when it does, we don't know what to do with it. We are, the both of us, just two idiots in love."

He would have been worried if John had not been smiling, genuinely smiling.

"She—you—wait, what?"

John stood, coming to rest in the negative spaces between them, and flickers of all of their past conversations floated down towards him.

"We're always going in circles, aren't we?"

"I don't understand." Sherlock frowned, the whiplash turn in their conversation sending him reeling. "Are we arguing?"

John stared at him for a moment, his smile turning to something more bitter, wry. "It's a surprise when we don't fight…is that what's become of us? Have we hurt each other so badly that this is normal?"

"No," Sherlock answered, shaking his head. "This is a...a phase, it's temporary—"

"Is it?" John asked, sitting back down. "It's been ten years. Doesn't sound very temporary."

For a moment Sherlock didn't know what to say, didn't know what John wanted to hear, until he decided it no longer mattered. His eyes narrowed; he would not be muzzled by whatever inconvenient discussion John seemed to be both encouraging and dismissing at the same time. It was rather unsettling to see him so hesitant.

"You're too afraid to say it, because that would mean speaking it into reality. Very well, you're always the brave one, so it's time that I say it: you are worried that my perceived infidelity and our reactions to it have damaged our relationship beyond repair. We need to talk about this—we can no longer afford to dance around it and pretend it doesn't exist when it's the only thing that's ever really come between us. John," He came forward again, crowding into his mate's space, "the question that we are not asking each other is: is this worth it? Is being together worth the work? Don't think. Don't try to be kind to spare my feelings. Just answer."

He stared down at his husband, and for a moment, one horrible moment, John paused, and everything threatened to fall apart. He shut his eyes—he couldn't watch the words come out, he knew with certainty it would be his end if John were to say—

"Yes." Came the small voice, assertive and sure. "Yes, of course it's worth it. This, us, is worth it. Always."

The weight inside him lifted, coil loosening. Carefully, he reached down and grasped John's gloved hands in his, bare against soft leather, and John let him.

"Then, might I suggest, that perhaps words aren't what we need right now."

John looked up at him for a long moment, something indiscernible in his face, the pensive crease in his brow.

"We've changed." He said.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "But it's nothing we can't…recalibrate."

John smiled, a little sadly, wistfully. He gripped Sherlock's hands in his, then let go, standing up. A feeling had begun within him, something slow and powerful, a banked fire growing in heat. It had been a long time since he had felt good, warm, content with where he found himself.

Wordlessly, he pulled off one glove, then another. Without looking away, he laid the pair in his husband's palms, smoothing over the edges as he let them go. Sherlock's hand curled around the supple leather and he stepped forward.

For a moment, there was silence as they stood in front of each other, staring. John smiled.

"I'd like for you not to keep me waiting until the next millennia, if that's all right with you."

And that was all Sherlock needed to bridge the gap between them, the approval he had sought to go forward for so long. He brought his hands to hold John's face and let out a sigh of relief at the touch— finally—as they sank into their bond together.

Sometimes fire wasn't enough; in Norway, it had nearly guttered out, gone in a cold wisp of smoke. Even on days when their connection shone brightest, when the apex had been reached and not yet crested, it had not felt as good as this. There was nothing as good as this, the immersion into a feeling so undiluted and crystalline, a new dimension in which to love and be loved, thoroughly known and understood.

There was a darker tinge to it, the sensation of a bruise not quite past, the broken capillaries still knitting together in slow atomic repair. He had felt it in Shanghai, in his unthinking grasp to convince John to forget, and it had been far worse then, a gaping red thing, deep and infected; it had felt wrong, sickly, the yellow spots of malnutrition threatening to swallow the leaves.

He rested his forehead against John's, inhaling slowly if only for the comforting scent, so willing and so close. He had thought he had lost it, had thought his actions had spoiled it forever, that he might never experience it again. John had shut him out; the gates of the garden had closed, and a darkness so intense and inevitable had loomed in his sight, and he could no more shut his eyes to it than stem its flow as it overcame him entirely.

He hadn't told John, hadn't wanted to redirect their conversation, but he had felt something in the lab that night, crouched over, searching a mortar and pestle in the cramped, overladen quarters. It was an odd feeling, something he couldn't identify. It had begun as a low burn in his stomach, not uncomfortable, but with edges threatening to catch, as if spurring him on towards some unknown conclusion. It was that feeling that had driven him upstairs, that feeling that dismissed Artemisia, that feeling which coerced him to finally ask the question neither of them had wanted answered, and that feeling that he now owed John's renewed compliance. He had been overcome by the sense of doing something right, when all of their recent encounters had been errors of judgment, bad circumstance, ill luck.

He surfaced out of their bond, reveling in their shared spaces. He had finally seen where they were, and, after so long of spinning in circles, he knew which way to lead them.

The ember smoldering away in his stomach began to heat. This feeling, he had forgotten, was happiness. He leaned down, pressing kisses from the bridge of John's nose to the dip of his mouth. John's hands came up from where they had been trapped between the two, rooting his fingers in the dark curls as he drew them closer together.

"I can't believe it took us this long to even talk about it." He said after a moment, breaking away. "We really are idiots."

"Well your strategy could be…recalibrated." Sherlock offered, a grin coming to his face. He hadn't felt so light, so relaxed, in years.

John hummed, arms coming around his shoulders. "Maybe I do. You did say it was sloppy."

"What?" He frowned. "When?"

"In the parlor earlier, when you came in from the lab."

_Oh._

"I meant her strategy was sloppy." he clarified. "Artemisia was attempting to illicit an emotional response to you by appealing to your kindness and your value of her friendship; she began almost as soon as we arrived. It's a poor way for a chess player to behave."

John smiled, despite himself, leaning in for another kiss. "Let's not talk strategy."

"No," Sherlock agreed, meeting him in the middle, letting them meet and come apart, trailing his mouth over the bobbing apple in John's throat, the new inches of smooth skin as each button on John's shirt opened. He felt something brush against his head and he glanced up as John tried to untie his cravat.

"Leave it." He said, stilling as he watched the black silk knot. "I like it on you."

John nodded, letting his hands fall to grasp at his mate's shoulders, his shirt soon hitting the floor.

Previously, this was as far as they'd gotten; heavy kisses, promising starts, but it all ended in a sudden chill, and Sherlock had acquiesced, recognizing all too well the reason why, the depth of intimacy John was not ready to commit to, whether or not it was the sex or the love or the bite.

But this was different; they had silently agreed it would not end like all the other luckless and aborted sessions. John had allowed him into their bond, fully. He was ready.

Sherlock ducked his head away from their kiss, lowering his teeth to graze the thin skin above John's neck, and he felt them descend, lengthening, ready to feel that delicious pop of giving flesh as they pierced through the tissue, when John gasped, suddenly drawing back.

"What?" Sherlock asked, stepping back, readying for the dismissal, the closure, another cold night. "What is it? Did–"

"We're _idiots_." John breathed, realization crawling on slowly. He let out a breath of astonished laughter, knocking his head against his husband's collarbone. "Artemisia spiked the dinner."

"She—what?" Sherlock frowned as he looked back up.

"When you were in the lab, did you feel strange? Warmer, surer—?"

"—more relaxed, yes." His mate finished, eyes widening. "But…why?"

"She wanted to talk about our bond. Or…she wanted to talk about our bond with me, but not you, because she knew I'd be upset, and goad you into a fight, and get us talking. God, she's good."

Sherlock hummed. "Mycroft has always resented asking for her help."

"It stimulates blood flow. I felt my face heat up, I can't believe I didn't notice it…"

"Really?" A grin came to his mate's face. "And when may I ask was that?"

"You may not ask. And I won't tell you. Is this what you feel like all the time?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you realize things—big things, epiphanies. Is this what it's like for you?"

"Perhaps. What are you feeling?"

"It's as if…I'm incredibly right, without exception."

"Eureka." Sherlock said lowly, sitting on the bed as he grasped his husband's hips.

"Yeah." John sighed, following him down. "Eureka."

Artemisia said nothing at breakfast, taken in the closed garden parlor on the veranda, the faint purple of the sun blending into the dark horizon through the greenery and darkened glass panes of the transparent room.

"So." John began, nodding as the servant filled his glass.

"Yes?"

"You were sitting on that for fifty years."

"I am sitting on a bench. I am not understanding this saying."

"Yes, you do."

She smiled at him, a sly, knowing grin.

"Forgive me; I'm an old woman. My ears must be leaving me."

"Your _hearing_," John corrected, although how many of these gaffes were genuine or for her own end, he had no idea, "and you're younger than I am."

"Not by mortal standards—" She glanced up from her glass and smiled. "Ah, our most beloved immortal has awoken. How is his Highness feeling today?"

Sherlock scowled at her, flyaway hair curling madly from the humidity coming from the canal as it cooled in the night.

"The proximity to the water, it is doing wonders for the hair, no?"

He ignored her, sitting next to John with a huff. "May I have the decanter?"

"You may have more than that: I will be leaving, as I do believe I am needed elsewhere, but I ask that you do not make a mess, or, more preferably, that you will clean up after." She said, shooting a pointed look across the table.

Sherlock uncorked the bottle. "Yes, mother."

"Someone must be. Incidentally, if your evening is free, you will find two tickets to the regatta tonight in the foyer. I hear it will be quite an exciting race." Artemisia winked, taking her glass and disappearing down into the hidden hallway.

"She's going to Florence, you know." Sherlock said after a moment, head rolling to John's shoulder.

"What, right now?"

"Mmm." He hummed as John draped an arm around him. "That's where the good stuff is."

"It is good," John acquiesced, taking the empty glass from him and tilting it back, searching for the last viscous remnants.

"Nobody welcomes a glutton shadowing their doorway, John."

"Pot and kettle, love."

But Sherlock had already been lulled into silence as John rubbed slowly at his temple. The moon drifted in through the gauzy curtains, air thick with rising fog.

"Well, we can't just sit here all night." John said finally, withdrawing his hand to get his husband's attention. "Game's afoot."

Sherlock glanced up at him, and he knew what that answering grin meant. "Arty will be gone until dawn. We'll have to find trouble somewhere."

"I hope you don't call her that in her presence."

"Rest assured John. If I did, she'd have my head hanging in the Uffizi by morning."


End file.
